Who Are You?

Rehearsals are going incredibly well, but everyone is starting to get fatigued. The play takes a lot out of all of us. As of now, we have two days off and, as usual, that made me sad because I'm kind of cheesy lame these days and so in love with this play, this group, this whole process. After buying two bottles of wine (the better to drown my sorrows later), I head to the gym and work really hard even though I'd much rather go home and watch 'V'. My big grey backpack is overflowing now, so much so that I have to carry my wallet and a new ink cartridge in my hands, while my running shoes literally kick my butt all the way to the bus stop as they dangle from the side.

I'm sweaty and gross. Half my hair has fallen out of my pony tail and has matted itself against my face. I follow the crowd onto the 95 and sigh as seat after seat fills up in front of me. All that's left is one of the spinny ones in the middle. I squeeze myself in with all my stuff, my shoes hitting the guy next two me. I look up, apologies, and then I freeze as two of the most beautiful blue eyes smile back and say it's alright. I think. We both had our headphones in and I couldn't hear. No, never mind, it's what he said. I couldn't take my eyes off that mouth.

I blush and duck my head down. I am such a spaz when I find myself attracted to a guy. I've got a good view of his iPod Touch and watch as he scrolls through songs. He finally settles on One by U2 and, silly person that I am, I go straight to my own album, holding my phone in full view of his eye-line and pick out All I Want Is You.

I'm mentally kicking myself for being such a dork and Tweet: "Dear cute boy on the bus, I wish I knew how to talk to you instead of stalking your playlist and playing the same thing you're listening to."

The bus is incredibly crowded and he's not paying any attention to me. Somehow, it feels like his leg is resting slightly more comfortably against my own. But I'm probably imagining that. I keep sneaking glances at the front of the bus, just to look at him and I start wishing I had taken a shower at the gym. My stuff is sliding off my lap again. I try and readjust and my sneakers go flying and smack him on the leg. I apologies again. Again he says it's alright.

He pulls out the iPod Touch once more and starts writing in the notepad. I desperately want to snoop, but keep looking away so as not to pry. That's when I realize that he is deliberately turning it towards me.

And it says: "You have a nice smile. And a nice phone. This is my stop. Stay pretty. His phone number. Marcus"

What the...? Did that just... What the...? OH MYGOD! Did he just pick me up via technology? That's just... That's so...


My heart jumps. I quickly pull out my contact list and type in the number, praying I write it down correctly. He leaves at St Laurent and we give each other a little wave.

I text the number. Heck, once I got home I even tried calling it, but the phone was off.

I don't know who you are. I don't know if I wrote down the right number or if I should have run off the bus with you or if I will ever even see you again. But Mystery Guy, you affected me and I thank you for that.

I never write about my dating life on this blog. My dirty laundry is my own and that is that. But on the crazy off chance that you know (or you are) a handsome blue-eyed boy named Marcus, well, who knows?